Hanged Man Nights: The ExTemplar
by MesT
Summary: <html><head></head>Dragon Age 2: A sort of sequel to the first story, Hanged Man Nights. Anders meets an old favorite of ours at the pub, and together they drunkenly mull over their problems. Very slight reference to male x male slash.</html>


A/N: A continuation of the first story, _Hanged Man Nights. _Anders mulls over his situation with an old favorite character of ours.

Inspired by a very unexpected in-game surprise in the Hanged Man. ;-) This depends on what information you choose to import from Dragon Age: Origins.

**Hanged Man Nights: The Ex-Templar**

Anders sat alone at the bar.

Uncharacteristically, he hadn't invited anyone along this time, not even Varric, although he was sure the dwarf was around somewhere nearby. Come to think of it, despite all the grueling hours of trouble and misadventure the party had been through, Varric had probably not missed a single night at the dinky pub.

No, this night Anders needed time to… think. He had recently gotten himself into a whole different level of trouble, and his confidence in the matter was slowly beginning to waver.

Perching at the bar soon proved to be dangerous, as the drinks so close at hand began to make the mage feel light-headed. He scanned the room for a new place to plant himself for the rest of the night and noticed a very drunk man sitting in a very dark corner.

_He looks pleasant,_ Anders thought wryly. _And hopefully incapable of any deep conversation. _

He ordered one more pint, promising himself it'd be the last, and ambled over to the stranger in the corner.

"What doo yoo want," came the drunken slur by way of invitation.

"So welcoming," Anders chirped, taking a seat beside his new friend. "My name is Anders."

"I don't care."

"And what's your name?"

"I -hiccup- don't have to answer to you." The stranger took a worryingly large gulp of his ale.

"Fine by me." Anders leaned back against his seat and made himself comfortable. This was exactly the kind of lack of conversation he needed.

For a time the two men sat side by side in what, were the circumstances different, may have been called companionable silence.

Suddenly Anders' mind snapped back to attention as he thought he glimpsed a silver head moving through the crowd. Next moment it was gone.

"Oh, Maker!" The mage breathed a sign of relief. Or disappointment.

"Don't call me that," the man beside him slurred.

"I beg your pardon?"

A grunt of annoyance, mug slammed to the table. "If you must be so perr-sistant, I'll give in. My name is Alistair."

"What? Oh, right, yes. Well, good for you, Alistair." Anders was preoccupied, trying to scan the crowd in the musty gloom.

Suddenly Alistair's face was practically on the table before him, straining to peer at the mage.

"Oh my, are you alright?" Anders forced one of the man's lids open wider with his fingers to peer into a dilated pupil. "Do you need healing?"

"No, no, no." Alistair swatted the hand away, eventually managing to sit upright again. "I was juss thinking you look familar. Famililar. You know what I mean."

Despite the man's obvious intoxication, this was of at least mild concern. "You must be mistaken, Serah."

"You see, I was once sort of a templar."

"Oh, wonderful!" Anders began to consider finding another table. "You mean to say you're not one anymore?"

"No." The man's shoulders slumped. "Because then baaad things happened to me. Like, life. And… M-hiccup-Morrigan. Maker, I hate M-hiccup-Morrigan."

Anders finished the last of his ale and instantly regretted it. "I know what you mean. About life, that is. I don't know this Morrigan," he replied, forehead resting against one palm.

"Oh! Count yourself lucky!" Alistair said, loudly enough for the patrons nearby to turn their heads. "Morrigan ruined my life. Or… I enjoy blaming her, at least. Blaming is good."

"Gah," Anders grunted by way of dismissal. "At least you _have_ someone to blame. I only have myself." He sighed.

"You're pathe-hiccup-tic. What troubles could_ yoo _have. Not enough shampoo for those blond locks?"

"Although… that can be… an _issue,_" Anders forced out, his headache intensifying, "my problem is one of… love."

The ex-templar snorted. "Ha! Can't decide which of your pretty lady friendzsz to love more?"

"Yes, Alistair, I'm drinking myself to death because I just can't decide which conveniently available womanzsz to go for." He grabbed the man's mug, which still contained some form of alcohol, and drained it without permission. "Too, many,_ women_."

"Hey, that's m-hiccup-mine!"

Anders ignored the protest. "I wish it were that simple. I think I may have ruined a friendship, Alistair." He stared ahead of him for a moment. "Actually, I'm not even sure we were friends. Rivals might be more like it. Sad, isn't it, to mourn the loss of a rivalry?"

Alistair attempted what could have been a pat on the shoulder but missed horrendously, instead knocking all their mugs off the table in one swing. "I don't really understand… _where_ the problem is in that, but I'm sorry for your l-lloss."

"Um, thanks. I guess. To be honest, I don't understand it either. All I know is that now he won't speak to me. Or even look me in the eye." Anders closed his eyes and remembered the beautiful night just one week ago. "I messed everything up."

As the night wore on, the companions' conversation became less and less coherent. Finally an hour came when Anders took the responsibility of booking a room and carrying an unconscious ex-templar up the treacherous stairs and through the bedroom door.

He plopped Alistair on the bed and collapsed beside him, ready to lose consciousness.

Suddenly there was a poke to his arm, and in a fleeting moment of lucidity Alistair said, "I know who you are. You're that apostate. You've been running for years. There was a time when I was ordered to find you."

"Please, Alistair, forget about that," Anders murmured, the sweet darkness of sleep creeping in.

"Anders. You'll be fine. Mark my words."

The mage opened his eyes to peek at the man next to him, but he was already asleep.

The next morning the sound of a slammed door jostled him awake. Anders stumbled out of bed and threw open the room's door fast enough to catch a glimpse of silver hair and pointy ears, the elf hastily making his way down the stairs and out of the pub.

And then it clicked. "Oh, no," Anders breathed, glancing at the disheveled form still asleep on the bed, a man he was sleeping next to just moments before. Surely Fenris didn't think…

Anders left the slumbering man and tried to quickly formulate a plan of pursuit.

He had to catch Fenris before it was too late. He _had_ to.


End file.
